Without Hesitation
by emmals16
Summary: Deviant or not, Connor is Connor. Calculating, curious, focused, and sometimes even seemingly cold But, not for Hank. Never for Hank.


**(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Detroit: Become Human.)**

 **First time writing for this, and since there's a great dynamic and relationship in-game, I just had to add my little taste of angst to the mix.**

 **Feel free to inform me about any mistakes- be it grammatical or otherwise.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"Well, here we are…"

Hank heaves a heavy sigh, scratching the back of his head as he grimaces at the building across the street. It's a dump. The only word that really comes to Hank's mind is 'dump', really, and he's already wishing they hadn't been assigned this case by Fowler.

Conner leans over in the seat, blinking as he takes in the sight of the building and then turning to Hank questionably, "Are we going to enter, Lieutenant?"

Hank crosses his arms and raising an eyebrow, "You in some sort of hurry?"

"I merely don't want to waste this opportunity. The suspect has already avoided being taken in multiple times in the past— one reason, I believe, that this case was passed to us."

"That's your guess?" Hank almost laughs, "I'm pretty sure Fowler gave us this case just 'cause you have no problems with gore in comparison to a bunch of the guys back at the precinct."

Connor's head tilts slightly, something akin to confusion and irritation visible in his expression.

Hank sighs, reaching to open his door without answering. The weather is bitter and the cold hits him full force as he steps into the street. He starts crossing before Connor's door even opens.

The case had gone through dozens of detectives already, none of which having been successful. It was relatively simple, actually. A bomber. A concealed bomber. Ironically, whoever was committing the crimes didn't seem to care much for flashy displays. It would be simple bombs put together in homes or public facilities— but the explosions never truly caused much of a panic wherever they happened. It was like the person only wanted a select few individuals to suffer— and _oh_ , did they.

Hank shivers slightly, coming to a stop so Connor can catch up to him. The images Fowler had provided, and which he had warned Hank ahead of time of, were gruesome. They'd seen the outcomes of explosions in the past— of course they did. But these had been so small that there was less of a distraction for the surrounding area. The woman the images were of was torn to pieces— chest cavity blasted open to the point of being hollow. Her limbs were no longer attached— including her head.

Hank had only been able to look at them a moment before turning away with a low groan. Connor, of course, hadn't even winced. He merely examined the poor woman's body like a clue.

Sometimes, despite being confident in Connor's deviancy, the kid still acted so _cold_.

He had mentioned something about it to Connor not long after first being introduced to the case. It had been mere steps away from being a full blown argument. Had Connor been as hard-headed as Hank, it might have even gotten violent. He knows some things he said were uncalled for...

" _Goddamn,"_ Hank had huffed out with an angry laugh, " _Are you sure you're deviant, Connor. Because you sure as Hell act like a fucking sociopath sometimes."_

Connor had frowned at him, voice still as composed as usual, " _Lieutenant, I'm sorry if I make it seem that way, but—_ "

" _Don't fucking 'Lieutenant' me, now, buckaroo!"_

Connor had blinked at him in curiosity at the name Hank had called him, wishing to ask about it but no doubt knowing it was not the time to do so. He shuffled in place uncomfortably, offering Hank a level stare, " _...Hank."_

Hank had ran a hand through his hair before taking a few steps towards Connor. He was mere inches away from their faces touching and Connor didn't so much as blink, " _Let me ask you this: if I was about to be shot or blown up or, maybe, even run over— anything— what would you do?"_

Connor blinked once, brows furrowing, apparently troubled by the question, " _I would save you, of course. Or, at least try my hardest to do so. You know that, Hank."_

" _See, that's what I was thinking, too,"_ Hank nods, eyeing Connor suspiciously, " _You saved me from that roof, and from that Deviant at Stratford Tower...but, was that because of who you are or because it was the best option at the time for your mission?"_

Connor opened his mouth to rebuke, but Hank didn't give him the chance to.

Hank waves the case file in front of Connor's face, " _You're Deviant— all that empathy shit, right? So, start acting like it, would ya…"_

He had just walked away after that, and Connor had left him alone, deciding to stay at the precinct overnight instead of returning to Hank's home. They only spoke again this morning when they had gotten an anonymous phone call revealing the location of the suspect. Neither of them had mentioned the conversation. Connor's good at letting small confrontations remain in the past, and Hank sure as Hell wasn't planning on apologizing.

Connor steps up beside him, looking to the building like it's some sort of puzzle, "Being that it is 2:34 p.m, I suspect that the majority of tenants aren't here at the moment."

"Good, less chance of 'collateral', as you might put it," Hank mumbles quietly, not sparing Connor a glance and stepping up to the apartment intercom system. He glances at the names listed. As suspected, the man they were looking for, a Jeremy Thompson, didn't have his name listed. They had been told by an anonymous source that he was last seen at the apartment complex, which seemed slightly suspicious to both Hank and Connor alike, "Place your bets, who do you think will let me in?"

Connor presses his lips together in thought, reading the names thoroughly, "Try Mr. Williams at the top. Men are more likely to be welcoming to other males when it comes to entering a home."

Hank shrugs, pressing down the button and hearing the buzz before a gruff voice barks out through the speaker, "Who are you and what the Hell do you want?"

"My kid locked me out. Mind buzzing me in?"

There's a pause before a high pitched squeal sounds off with a click as the door becomes unlocked. Hank wrenches it open immediately and holds it for Connor to enter first.

"Fucking moron," Williams mumbles over the intercom before cutting out.

Hank pauses before entering after Connor, looking at the intercom in bafflement, "Fucking prick," Hank steps past Connor and begins ascending the staircase, "Yeah, _very_ welcoming."

"'Welcoming' was used in a physical sense, Lieutenant, not so much one based on attitude."

Hank scoffs, "Yeah, I got that."

They make it past the first floor before Connor speaks up.

"The anonymous tip said that the suspect was seen on the third floor." Connor mumbles quietly from behind Hank, but the older man still tenses up.

He snaps around, holding a finger to his lips, "Shut the fuck up, would you? Don't blow our cover."

Connor actually looks embarrassed after being chastised and nods slowly before Hank begins ascending in front of him again with a perplexed shake of his head. He felt out of sorts that day. Tense. It wasn't good for communication or morale, but it was there and he figured it wasn't going to go away anytime soon.

They made it up the three flights of steps to the third floor in silence. Hank led the way, as he usually did, and approached the door leading into the apartment block.

That's when shouts erupt from within the hallway on the other side of the door. Loud, male, and angry. Footsteps thunder away from the door right as Hank reaches for his gun and the door handle simultaneously.

"Stay behind me, Con—"

The door opens only an inch. Connor hears it before Hank does; a fast ticking sound coming from the other side of the door. Hank understands what it is too late; Connor doesn't.

The older man feels hands grab hold of his upper arm and pull him with unexpected strength away from the door. Hank catches only a glimpse of Connor's face— the focused glint in his eyes, concerned curve of his brow, his extended hand forcefully pushing against Hank's chest, set jaw, and parted lips as he yells something that can't be heard over the sound of the sudden explosion.

Hank has already been shoved, though. He falls backwards, head smacking harshly against a wall and his body getting pummeled as he rolls down several flights of the stairs he had just climbed. Light flashes around him, and a piercing sound shoots through his abused mind and leaves his ears ringing as he comes to a stop on the second floor landing.

That's when he blacks out.

/-/-/-/-/

Hank has dealt with rough mornings before.

Too much to drink or too much excitement the day prior— leaving him both nauseous and sore.

This is a different feeling altogether.

Hank's eyes flutter open right as a pang of pain shoots through his head. He groans, hands patting at the space around him and he realizes far too slow that his arm is hanging out into the empty space of the center of the stairwell.

He manages to motivate himself, despite the pounding in his head, to sit up somewhat. When he does, he catches sight of his position. He's sprawled out, body diagonal on the landing. Pieces of burnt drywall cling to his clothes. His gun is laying on a stair further down than he is now.

Not only that, but he realizes fairly quickly that the arm that had been hanging through the stairs' railing is pretty much useless. Broken? Dislocated? He had no idea. Painful? Definitely.

"Jesus…" he groans, pulling the appendage to his chest tenderly.

He's confused. Very much confused, and the fact that he can't hear much of anything through the fog in his ears makes understanding just that much more difficult. There's warmth running down the side of his face, but he doesn't get so far as to actually check to wound, too distracted by the sound coming back to him. There's screams from within the building, but if Connor was right then most of the people who live there will have already been gone by now.

 _Connor._

Hank climbs to his feet immediately, vision fading in and out as blood pounds in his ears and his vision swims. Someone rushes past him on the stairwell, and he almost thinks it's their suspect, Jeremy, before he gets a better look and notes that it's a woman and her child. He doesn't spare another glance her way before he goes staggering down to retrieve his gun and back up the flight of stairs he rolled down. His legs, if they had emotions for themselves, would be crying as he continues to climb them. And his bum arm swings uselessly by his side.

He gets to the final few stairs before the landing he had fallen from, turns to look at the door, and pales.

The explosions are always concealed— small yet effective in their purpose, but this one isn't quite the same. The walls are smoking— small patches of fire climbing them and the floor. The railing is imploded outwards towards the center of the stairwell, warped and in pieces. The door is practically the same.

And in the middle of it all, smoking and in as many pieces as the environment around him, is Connor.

"Oh, God…" Hank whispers hoarsely, because he isn't so sure anything else from his vocabulary can describe his thoughts enough.

Connor's seated awkwardly in between two stairs, what remains of his only leg splayed sideways away from him. His remaining arm— the one that had thrown Hank down the stairs, he notes— is limp by his side. Images from the woman who had been blown to pieces flitter through Hank's mind as the detective stares down at Connor.

 _The missing limbs…_

Connor's two stump-legs, one being where his mid-thigh is and the other being halfway from his knee to his foot, both are coated in the blue blood. One arm is merely scorched while the other looks to be in tattered pieces hanging from his shoulder joint.

 _The hollow chest…_

Shrapnel litters Connor's torso, fragments from the visible skin missing and burnt somewhere nearby. The plastic is warped and blown open on the right side— the side that was facing the door.

 _The missing head…_

Hank can hold onto that thought, at the very least. Connor's eyes are blown impossibly wide and his mouth may be coated with blue blood enough to make Hank deny any possibility of there still being life in the android, but at least his head is still _there_ , if not necessarily in tact.

And on its temple shines the bright red LED.

"Jesus Christ…" Hank mumbles to himself, ignoring the overwhelming stench of burnt plastic wafting around the area.

He stays that way for a long moment— merely staring.

He stays that way, that is, until a choking sound erupts from the tattered android in front of him. Blue blood comes flowing from his mouth and nose, quickly drenching whatever white remains of his collared shirt.

That snaps Hank out of his trance quickly.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…" he whispers hurriedly, taking two hurried steps towards Connor before collapsing to his knees, "Oh, fuck me. Connor?"

None of his words elicit a response.

Hank doesn't exactly know what to do, and he isn't sure if that's his cluelessness or if that's his apparent concussion's fault, but whichever it is he finds himself merely reaching for Connor's face, cupping it in his two hands despite his arm's protests.

 _Connor's alive_ , Hank has to remind himself, _his LED...it means he's alive._

"Connor?" he says again, trying to force himself into the android's line of sight which drifts far off somewhere past Hank's shoulder, "You there, kid? Connor?"

Slowly, ever so slowly, Connor's dark eyes slide to take in the sight of Hank, his expression never changing as he does so.

"There you are," Hank nearly whispers, and forces a smile. Calm. He knows he needs to calm down. And he very nearly succeeds in doing so before Connor attempts to move.

It's very sudden. The only sign Hank has that the kid is going to try something is his brown eyes widening only slightly. Next thing he knows, Connor's twisting out of his grasp, eyes taking in the sight of the destroyed door and his only remaining limb, his arm, shakily reaching to push himself farther upward.

"Wow, wow, wow, wow," Hank all but shouts at Connor, his able hand reaching forward to clutch the android's shirt, "Take it easy, now. C'mon, we're fine."

Connor's gaze turns back to Hank, mouth still slightly agape and LED still alarmingly red.

Despite this, Hank continues, "Everything's fine."

Connor's arm slowly reaches up and gently pokes at a particularly sore part of Hank's head, his gaze lingering there with a strange glint of guilt in his eyes. Hank reaches up to his head, too, confused as to what had caught his attention. He feels warmth, and when he pulls his hand away he notes the blood staining his fingers.

His head wound.

Connor looks like he's been put through a trash compactor and he's concerned about a cut on Hank's head.

" _I would save you, of course."_

The words come back to him as Connor's hand remains delicately on Hank's temple. Hank can only stare, feeling his breath catch in his throat as he recalls their conversation.

" _Or, at least try my hardest to do so."_

"What were you thinking, Connor…"

Connor's hand very suddenly falls from Hank's head, smacking against the stairs beneath him with an audible _thunk_. Hank startles, focusing his attention back on the dying android.

"H— Hhhh," comes the breathy sounds from Connor, only accompanied by the harsh sound of static, "Ssshhhuu...d-down"

Connor jerks backwards, already damaged head smacking against the wall behind him as his eyes roll back into his head. Electric impulses rush through his head, forcing involuntary movements— not that Hank knows this.

"Oh, shit," Hank almost yells, jamming his hand behind Connor's head to prevent him from further damaging whatever androids have for a brain. As soon as he does so, Connor melts into his hold. He almost slips down the remainder of the stairs, relying completely on Hank to keep him from doing so.

For Hank, he fumbles to pull Connor towards him, hissing at the heat radiating off of him from the burnt plastic but keeping his hold firm nonetheless.

"You're gonna be okay, kid. Okay?" Connor's eyes remain open, rolling back into their normal position and half-lidded, but Hank can tell the android is still conscious, "I'm going to get you out of here…"

He steals a glance around him, knowing full well that the fire department and backup from the DPD would be there soon. Most likely even ambulances. But, even so, ambulances at this time only took human patients. Laws and equality was still shaky, after all. Android repair stations existed where Cyberlife stores once did, but they had no form of emergency transportation.

Hank had to take care of this on his own.

"I gotcha," he mumbles, moving his arms beneath Connor's shoulders and knees, bum arm be damned.

"Put your hands up!"

Hank freezes at the voice, and notes how Connor very weakly turns his head to see the who had spoke. Their suspect, Jeremy Thompson, stood on the other side of the twisted door, gun pointed directly at Hank's kneeling form.

Hank slowly tries to reach for his gun, but Jeremy waves his own in the air threateningly, "Hands up, I said, fucker."

Hank reluctantly does so, leaving Connor to rest awkwardly on his knees, body lolling at the lack of support.

Jeremy steps out onto the landing, a small smile decorating his face, "I had hoped that adding a little more _oomph_ to my bomb would be enough to take you both out— android or not," he motions towards Connor, humor illuminated in his eyes, "Seems I was only partially successful."

"I swear to God, you prick…" Hank growls, feeling Connor twitch spasmodically on his lap.

"The Android should be dead here in a matter of minutes and _you_ will be, as well," He clenches his hands tighter around the weapon, "Though, in a less _colorful_ mann—"

Within a moment, Hank feels his gun being ripped free from its holster at his hip, and hears the familiar sound of a gun being unloaded numerous times. Jeremy falls lifelessly backwards, his own gun falling to the ground with every round still loaded.

Hank immediately looks down to Connor right as the android releases his hold on Hank's gun and allows for it to clatter to the ground before him. A high pitch whine sounds off from somewhere in Connor's body and he proceeds to groan in response to it.

"Good work," Hank murmurs and he rearranges his arms where they had been previously, "Sorry if this hurts, son."

Without another moment to waste and easily forgetting about his gun on the ground, Hank heaves Connor's limp body into his arms. His shoulder protests violently, and a breath of air forces itself from Hank's lips, his teeth clenching as his head swims as well.

He knows he has no time to ponder his own condition, and immediately goes about descending the stairs. He can already see the red and blue lights flashing outside the building, and can hear the voices of officers and civilians alike before he's even passed the second floor.

"Hh— ank," Connor manages quietly, static exploding along with the sound, and when Hank looks down he can see Connor's eyes watching him from where his head has lolled against his shoulder, "Shh—utdw'n...immi'nt."

"Connor, stop trying to speak," Hank scolds gently, hoisting the android closer. Connor's heavier than he looks. Metal and plastic seems to weigh more than Hank had actually thought about. He supposes, since Connor was designed to go toe-to-toe with criminals, it would make sense to make him a bit heavier when it comes to materials, even if it's a pain for his arm, "I told you, I've got you. I'm getting you out of here, kid. Don't worry."

Connor's remaining hand clutches at Hank's shirt where thirium has soaked through the fabric. It very nearly rips the older man's heart right out of his chest.

Hank makes it to the bottom floor and rushes out the door into the frigid cold.

His mind swims as the flashing lights blind him. He sees silhouettes coming towards him and even manages to catch some familiar voices calling towards him— Officer Person sticks out, as does, to Hank's mild surprise, Reed. He ignores them, turning to the right towards where he remembers he had left his cart and away from the growing crowd and flashing lights. They won't be able to help him. He has to go.

Hank stumbles across the road, leaning Connor's stump legs against the car for only a moment before ripping the back door open with his freed hand. He tries his best to lay Connor across the seat as gently as he can manage despite his arm wailing at him. On a whim, he rips his jacket off and rolls it up into a sloppy ball, leaning over the barely conscious android and propping his head up so he can wedge it underneath his battered head. He has to force himself to turn away from Connor's gaze, slamming the door and climbing into the driver's seat.

He turns the key in the ignition with shaking hands and speeds away from the curb.

/-/-/-/-/

The smell of burning plastic fills the car within a matter of moments. Hank can't say he notices, however. His eyes are glued on the road in front of him as he weaves in and out of traffic going well over the given speed limit. Horns honk as he zooms past other drivers in a desperate attempt to get to the Cyberlife facility before it is too late.

Hank peers into his rearview mirror and finds Connor's thirium-shot eyes staring back at him. He pushes harder against the gas pedal.

"Come on now, Connor," Hank calls back to him, glancing once more— Connor's eyes never fail to meet his own in the mirror, "Just a few more minutes. Just stay with me for a few more minutes. Okay?"

"Guh— O-over… hhhe— ting, Hhha'k," Connor tries to inform, voice shattering into static and wet hacks. Ventilations were vital when it came to androids, whether or not they had lungs, they still needed to breath _something_ , "Hhh… you?"

Hank's hands clench tighter on the steering wheel as he rushes through a yellow light, "I'm fine Connor. I'm perfectly fine," He searches his brain to think of something for Connor to hold onto. Something to keep him conscious, "I won't be if you don't let me pay you back for that asshole you saved me from back there!"

Hank speeds through a turn, deciding swiftness was more important than Connor's comfort at the time. Connor jerks roughly in the back seat, his one hand smacking against the back of the passenger seat for support. His stump legs flail uselessly, trying to keep him steady and a breathy grunt escapes him for his instinctual attempts. Hank bites his lip, but says nothing.

The light turns red. The car in front of Hank comes to a stop— as does the cars surrounding him. He slams his unwounded hand against the steering wheel repeatedly, "Fuck, fuck, fuck! C'mon you damn light!"

Connor makes another suffocating sound— a quiet hum following it. It's soft, nothing that makes sense to the current situation and something that completely conflicts with Hank's aggressive terror. Hank spins around in his seat, reaching over to grasp Connor's arm securely, "I'm going to make sure you're okay, Connor. You understand?

Thirium floods the leather seats, flowing over the edge and splashing along the floor and the backs of the front seats.

Connor stares at him once again, forcing himself to smile softly in an attempt to ease Hank's dangerously stressed mind. It doesn't work as he had hoped, causing the older man to huff out a distressed chorus of curses and a heavy sigh.

Connor hums with accompanying static again, dropping the smile and pulling his arm away only slightly. He clutches at Hank's hand as strongly as he can, willing himself to show some life for Hank. The man's stress levels are skyrocketing, as is Connor's, but there are more important things the android has to worry about other than his stress.

The time ticking down in front of his vision is at the forefront of his mind.

Hank holds Connor's right back, noticing the vehicles around him beginning to roll forward. He turns back to the road without hesitation, keeping a hold on Connor's hand with his wounded arm while his other takes hold of the steering wheel. The car only jerks slightly as Hank steps on the gas pedal.

Connor stares at their intertwined hands as Hank goes about speeding through traffic once more. Hank continues to speak to him, the words flowing over him as the timer slowly counts closer and closer to zero.

Connor's eyes close on their own, his body unable to sustain conscious systems at the low levels of thirium he's at. He has no say in the matter. Before he knows what's happening, all Connor knows is darkness— the sound of Hank's voice and the feeling of his strong hand being the last things he knows.

Hank turns sharply into the android repair center, recognizing it as one of the previous Cyberlife stores he had hated so fervently. Just as he goes rolling up to the front door, he feels Connor's grip slacken around his hand.

Hank steps on the breaks, twisting around immediately.

"Connor?"

No response, and Hank's heart freezes when he sees Connor's closed eyes in the back seat where he laid so limply and awkwardly. Hank shakes Connor's arm, trying to elicit a reaction.

Nothing.

"Shit!" he hisses, dropping Connor's hand and throwing his door open. It doesn't take long before he's in the back seat along with Connor, trying to gather the android back up in his arms, his legs slipping on the thirium-covered leather.

"C'mon, son," Hank practically pleads, cradling Conner's shoulders in the crook of his elbow before dragging the limp android out of the back seat and into Hank's full grasp. Hank's a lot more unsteady this time, stumbling and almost keeling over plenty of times as he goes around his car and heads for the front doors, "Don't do this to me. C'mon. Nearly there."

Connor's fans and biocomponents are rumbling spasmodically under his skin and onto Hank's arms as the detective trots in through the front doors in a frantic shuffle. His body slams into the door as the door slides open, his uneasy footing causing him to nearly fumble. It takes him a moment to register the fact that Connor's body is slipping from his grasp, and when he does notice, he also notices the fact that his wounded arm is failing him.

He sinks to his knees before his arm finally gives out, trying his best to rest Connor against the floor as gently as possible.

Hank barely registers the fact that people have swarming around him, hands touching his arms and pulling Connor away from him. Onlookers watch with wariness from all points of the lobby. Voices are echoing around him and yet he finds himself unable to listen. He can only stare at Connor's still face, thirium coating his jawline and lips and nose, the white shell beneath his skin showing through where a hole was blown into his head, the red LED on his partner's temple— slowly beginning to dim. Flickering. No longer cycling.

Dying completely.

"—ir. Sir!" Hank hears, "Let him go. You have to let him go!"

 _No_ , he thinks, feeling a chill run through him at the words, _I won't. Never. Not him._

Then hands are prying his own off of Connor's shoulder and they pull the kid off of his elbow and lap, hoisting him up onto a stretcher. His remaining arm hangs limply over the side of it, swinging as he's wheeled away through a door.

Hank stares at the door for a long moment, feeling hands on his shoulders and seeing strangers' faces poking in and out of view with their mouths moving to form muted words. He doesn't have any desire to listen to them though. His eyes track over the linoleum floor he's kneeling on, spotting the blue blood coming in heavy puddles over the asphalt and sidewalk outside, trailing in through the clear doors— blue smudges are smeared on them from where he had ran into it clumsily before—and littering the ground around Hank. Looking down on himself, he notes how his clothing matches the floor, as well.

"—an you hear us?" He finally looks to the woman— the apparent android— in front of him, clutching both of his shoulders in a tight grip, "Sir, you are hurt, as well. We will call an ambulance right awa—"

"No," Hank interrupts, "Just...just take care of that damn idiot…"

She looks surprised and baffled at the same time, shaking her head immediately, "I must implore you—"

Hank looks up at her, eyes appearing so tired and frightened and it makes the woman stop mid-sentence at the amount of emotion a single look can hold. Her mouth hangs open halfway, looking for something to say. Hank beats her to it, mumbling the only word he can think of.

"Please."

/-/-/-/-/

Later— much later— when the sun had set, the thirium had been washed away, and Hank had been forced to recieve first-aid in the lobby of the former Cyberlife store— outright refusing to leave even when Fowler and Reed had come to drag him away with an ambulance waiting outside— he finally had some good news.

"Mr. Anderson?" The female android from before says, her eyes looking troubled and it makes Hank's stomach sink. He expected and feared he'd hear the news he remembers hearing years before after _the accident_ , but the android smiles instead, hands clasping in front of her calmly, "Please follow me."

He's unsteady when he does, but manages following by himself despite the group of officers still camped out in the lobby jumping up to help him. She leads him into the back where cold looking tables and robotic arms are all open for use behind multiple curtains— only a few occupied.

Including the one where Connor now sits silently on.

He's staring at the screens littering the walls beside the robotic arms, an odd look on his face. Almost like he's confused or maybe even surprised.

He only looks away when the the curtain is swept aside and Hank steps into the room.

Connor still has marks left behind. Missing pieces from his face or a slight slouch to his shoulders. Hank notes the fact that his chest is white— his artificial skin missing.

"He still has some repairs needed," the android says quietly, "But, some of the parts are not currently available— him being a prototype RK800 model. For now, the technician believes it is best for him to go home to rest. His artificial skin on his torso will return when all repairs are completed in the following days."

"Got it," was all Hank replies with before the android dismisses herself and leaves Hank and Connor to themselves.

They're quiet, Hank giving into his body's needs and taking up a stool that was tucked away underneath the desk. Connor watches him do so before choosing to stare down at his hands in uncertainty.

"I'm…" Connor starts, "I sense your distress, Lieutenant. I'm sorry."

Hank snorts, rubbing a weary hand down his face, "Ah, Hell..."

There's a pause.

The next thing Connor knows, two strong yet considerate arms are pulling him into a hug. He stiffens for only a moment before obliging Hank and wrapping his own arms loosely around his torso.

" _Don't ever do that again, bastard,"_ Hank wants to yell, " _I thought you were dead. I wouldn't be able to handle that happening to you and you know it._ "

But he doesn't.

"I'm sorry, Hank" Connor mumbles into the crook of Hank's neck, hands clenching onto the fabric of Hank's stained jacket— the only sign of the shock the android also holds.

Hank thinks of Connor's words once again, hearing them echo in his concussed head:

' _I would save you, of course. Or, at least try my hardest to do so.'_

Connor's arms tighten around the older man, and Hank know this will only last a moment longer before the kid will be pestering him about getting better medical attention, and changing his clothes, and getting some rest. Etcetera.

' _You know that, Hank.'_

So, Hank finally speaks before the moment is over.

"Don't think I wouldn't have done the same for you. Without hesitation."


End file.
